may all their ghosts come back to haunt you
by orangesparks
Summary: "They are demons, then; here to tempt him." Enjolras stumbles upon Grantaire and Éponine the night before the barricade. (Enjolras/Grantaire/Éponine)


Three in the morning.

(They call it soul's midnight.)

He tuts quietly at the fact that the door is ajar, even if only by a few inches. There's a loud, throaty moan – Grantaire, no mistaking it. And judging from the other sounds escaping the room, he isn't alone. A shudder of irritation runs down Enjolras's spine.

He will close the door, gently enough to not alert them to his presence, and be on his way.

He is no stranger to the Amis entertaining the occasional grisette or even prostitute in these rooms, tucked quietly behind the back hallway of the Café Musain. If this is what it takes to clear their minds and return them to top form to pursue the cause, then he's all the more glad for it. Just because he's chosen to abstain from such things doesn't mean he expects them to follow suit.

Tomorrow, the barricades shall rise. He can hardly deny them what may well be their last opportunity to indulge in pleasures of the flesh, and for Grantaire, the most hedonistic of the lot, to be amongst their numbers is hardly surprising.

(He had intended to close the door. Truly.)

He has no interest in such things, even despite the knowledge that he will likely meet his death a virgin. It is the price for devoting his life to liberty, and he is far from sorry for it.

But then a sharp little gasp from inside the room draws his attention, and his eyes unwillingly fix on not just Grantaire but the girl writhing beneath him, her curtain of dark, tangled hair spilling over the foot of the bed.

It's _her_ - the little gamine who trails behind Marius Pontmercy like a quicksilver shadow, with her large, dark eyes and crooked smile. Silent as a ghost.

She's anything but silent, now.

She's wild, eyes screwed shut, fingernails scrabbling for purchase along the sweat-sheened plane of Grantaire's back, gasping little moans escaping her pink, open mouth. One lean, tanned calf is kicked upright, the other curled flush against Grantaire's pale backside. It's the most indecent thing Enjolras has ever seen.

He has trouble looking away.

It's curiosity, he tells himself. Quite human, and nothing more. He's never experienced the act of sex himself, and it's natural for him to be intrigued when faced with it – the catalyst for all human life – when he is so very close to facing death. It's almost poetry.

(Yet curiosity alone doesn't explain the flush crawling down his neck, the heat coiling tight in his belly.)

His hand, lingering near the doorknob, falters.

Grantaire lunges, biting the curve of the girl's shoulder, and she sighs in response, grabbing a fistful of hair and tugging_hard_, sliding her fingers through his dark curls, coming to rest them on the slope of his neck, stroking gently. It's an oddly intimate gesture, even more than the sex itself, and his sudden shame for invading their privacy is what makes him finally grab the doorknob, quietly wrenching the door shut despite his body's protests.

He stands in the hallway, staring dully at the peeling wallpaper, hands curled into loose fists.

A strange kind of adrenaline is coursing through him - as though he were ready for a brutal fight, and at the last moment, his opponent suddenly changed his mind, leaving him off-guard, oddly shaken. His breathing is unsteady; almost rough.

(Sternly, he wills his heart rate to return to normal.)

He's not sure how long he stands there unmoving, but then there is a creak of floorboard and the door swings open and he turns, guiltily, insisting to himself all the while that he has nothing to feel contrite over.

Grantaire is standing just beyond the door, still entirely nude.

"You make an attractive hall ornament," says he, "but you would no doubt find it much more comfortable inside." He lightly rests his hand on the doorknob. "And if you would be good enough to lock it this time, we'd be obliged."

Before Enjolras can form an indignant reply, Grantaire turns and strides to the bed, where the girl lays waiting.

He can't be sure what it is that makes him follow. Surely, this is a joke of some sort. A cruel game of revenge, for the icy looks and words Enjolras has sent Grantaire's way for so long.

But he's curious, and that strange, pleasant ache curling hot inside of him has only grown worse, and this is another scholarly pursuit to conquer, after all.

When he locks the door behind him, his hand trembles only slightly.

The girl is as nude as Grantaire, legs curled beneath herself like a lazy, contented cat. Despite the faint dirt and bruises littering her body, the bronze hue of her skin refuses to be hidden, and with fascination, he notes its contrast to the rumpled white sheets she reclines upon. He does not realize he is staring until there is a disdainful snort – Grantaire, of course – and Enjolras stiffens.

He is not being untoward. This is a scholarly interest in her body, nothing more. He's not seen the female form plain and bare in anything other than statues and paintings, and it's natural to be intrigued by the thin scar tracing her stomach, the way her breasts move with every soft inhale-

"Be a sport and do not remain overdressed!" cries Grantaire. "This is a game in which a uniform is considered cheating."

_I find you an embarrassment to our cause_, thinks Enjolras disdainfully.

And yet, he begins to loosen his collar.

He is unsure of what makes him comply to such madness, let alone the wishes of a cynic who lives only to infuriate and disappoint him as a daily hobby, but his own body betrays him once again, and he is shedding his jacket as though it were made of fire. Slender fingers wrestle with his waistcoat in a way they never have before, tripping over buttons which have suddenly become a row of stubborn little enemies. And though his eyes remain averted, he knows he is not imagining the soft strains of laughter floating over from the direction of the bed, but he is too fraught with nerves to feel very cross.

When he has shed his last article of clothing and his body responds ever more greatly to the change in temperature, the laughter ceases.

"Come, and let us admire you," says Grantaire.

He moves towards them with the gait of one sentenced to execution.

(And his heart leaps in fear, as it is not far from truth - not because he is succumbing to desire, but because such an action implies that he will be met with death soon and he is admitting it, if only to himself.)

Grantaire's eyes still shine with mirth, but something else, too, and the fact that it is a not unfamiliar look on his face is what makes Enjolras sharply glance away, not knowing why it unsettles him so. The gamine's stare would be no less discomforting, he is sure, so he looks downward and focuses instead on the curve of Grantaire's neck (the same white expanse of skin the girl was so tenderly stroking), the dull gleam of sweat making it almost glow, and when he finds himself wondering idly how the jut of pale collar bone might feel beneath his teeth, he tears his gaze away in sudden panic – only to face the scrutiny of the girl.

To his astonishment, she is not frightened; her eyes calmly reflect the same curiosity he imagines is apparent in his own.

(He moves closer to the bed. Grantaire grins.)

The grisettes who follow him on the streets will boldly tease, and the bourgeois women coyly pretend their interest in him is nonexistent, but none of it matters, because he has trained himself to respectfully look away and think no more of it and it has served him so very well all these years.

His pulse thuds dully in his ears. He only wants to know why the gamine has such a look of indifference about her, why she's not as affected as he is.

And he feels stupid for not realizing why sooner.

This is nothing to her. _They_ are nothing; she does not love him, nor Grantaire. And she will not condescend to pretend to love anyone else, when there is only one man whom she truly desires, he who makes her his errand girl without a second's thought.

Those large, dark eyes consider him, and he's irritated to find himself unable to speak. He takes control of every situation with his words, forceful and commanding, but they have fled and abandoned him, and he nearly shakes from the loss.

_You will not judge me_, her gaze says, _and I will not judge you_.

Gently, she reaches out and envelops his hand in her own, weather-beaten and callused and so small, and moves it down the slope of her breast, lightly stroking his knuckle with the rough pad of her fingertip. He sinks to his knees, onto the bed, bending forward to receive her touch.

It should annoy him, to be treated like a startled deer, but instead he feels lost, frantic. Tentatively, he slides the heel of his hand over her nipple, spreading his fingers wide and cupping the warm fullness of her breast, perhaps too roughly. But she seems to have no complaints, and he swallows hard at the soft noises she makes.

"Apollo trembles," murmurs Grantaire.

"I… don't even know your name," he confesses, then curses himself for the reaction which will surely follow such bluntness. But she is not offended. She seems almost… pleased. (By his honesty? By being asked for her name? But _why?_)

"I am called Éponine." She smiles at him for the first time, softly, and there's something so mournful in her expression that it twists his heart. Grantaire chuckles.

"Now we're all acquainted."

Enjolras flushes, mortified as he realizes the absurdity of the situation – making her _identify_ herself as he clutches her bare breast – but then there's a creak on the bed and Grantaire is sitting directly behind him, the heat radiating from his chest strangely pleasant against Enjolras's back.

Then Éponine's mouth is on his throat, soft and wet, and he moans, eyes fluttering shut.

They are demons, then; here to tempt him. And it is with a shudder, not of remorse but of pleasure, that he falls prey to their wicked administrations.

"Be still," she murmurs.

He obeys.

Immediately, he is seized by two pairs of eager hands, callused for entirely different reasons, and he shivers faintly as rough fingertips brush the soft lines of his narrow body, ever mindful to heed the request to lay in stillness.

Éponine bends, her curtain of dark hair moving over his chest, passing teasingly over the flushed peaks of his nipples, and he bites back a quiet groan, refusing to show such vulnerability.

But then her hands grip the insides of his thighs, ragged nails biting into the soft flesh, and his wince is involuntary.

Then she lowers her head and _devours_ him.

If he still possessed the ability to care, he might have been ashamed of the strangled yell that escaped his throat; but he is helpless to do no more than bite his lip and taste bitter blood, jerking his hips up and silently urging her to consume him further.

She is either kind or cruel, because she sates his desire.

It is over much too quickly before she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He forces himself to meet her gaze this time, because he won't be a coward any longer, and he finds relief that she does not look disgusted with him; only satisfied in a way that stokes his need even further. And then Grantaire's hands are warm on his shoulders, and he says, in a strangled voice, "It's time – yes, finally! - that I was the one to teach you something of the world," but there's nothing smug about his tone – only awed, and patient, and— _kind_.

The skin of Grantaire's back is far smoother than the rest of him, and there is no word in any book ever written which describes the feel of their two bodies fitting slickly, snugly together – for if there were, it would be quite sinful.

They take him apart, these two lost souls, and put him back together – as though he were no more than a tired clock with its springs bent and overworked, and they were the expert craftsmen who knew exactly which cogs to push back into place, which wires to stretch and soothe and stroke with clever, nimble fingers.

He finds it odd that he has heard from many others that simply one "round" is enough, before they are ready to swat their mistresses out the door and light their pipes in triumphant repose. For several rounds have passed, and he thinks he should like to participate in several more, discover as much as he can, if they will have him. And it is not denial when he knows that this is not only about his body's newfound thirst for them.

It is about his own shortcomings as a leader.

He has been so focused on saving the people that he has neglected to think of the individual. He sees that now – how could he not? - when here are two such examples spread before him, yearning and broken and nearly as lost as he is. Perhaps he can't save them. Perhaps they're both beyond it. But he can give himself to them, if only temporarily.

He watches the tired blink of Grantaire's eyes; the glow of candelight on Éponine's cheek, illuminating the shadow of an old bruise.

_I am yours_, he thinks, drowsily. _Not for always - but tonight, I am yours_.

Soon, when the first rays of dawn hit the dirty Parisian streets, he will belong only to Patria once more; but for now, he closes his eyes, allowing their fingers to crawl and search and explore every inch of him, seeking out the spot that will force the marble to crack.


End file.
